Hail to you, imperial galleys! Lower mighty rudders!
Walk with silent tread
I’m proudly officiating a sublime Requiem in the chill of the night
Upon these sacred waters.
There at the bottom, where seashells sleep tired from catch
And upon the dead algae peat falls,
Lay graves of the brave, lay brother to brother
Prometheuses of Hope, Apostles of Pain.
Do you not feel how the sea calms,
That it may not trouble their holy repose?
From the deep abyss peaceful slumber ebbs,
And tired flight of the shadow of the moon slowly walks.
This is a mysterious temple and a sad graveyard
With decaying carcasses, unfathomably real.
Silent as the night upon southern islands,
Dark as a conscience, cold and despairing.
Do you not feel from azure depths,
That piety grows atop spilled water
And the air fills with curious gentleness?
That great soul of the fallen roams
Hail to you, imperial galleys! Upon this tomb my brothers
Twist the trumpets in black.
Let your sentry, upright, chant the holy dirge
Here, where waves come to an embrace!
For the centuries will pass, like white foam
that crosses the sea and dies without a trace,
And a new and great age will come,
To create a splendid home upon this grave.
But this graveyard, where it is buried
the terrible mystery of the Epic,
The cradle will be the tale of the times,
Where the soul will seek out its Coryphaeus.
Buried are here once ancient garlands
And the passing joy of more than one generation,
That’s why this cemetery lies in the shadow of waves
Between the bosom of the sea and the vault celestial.
Hail to you, imperial galleys! Extinguish the torches,
Let the oars come to a blustering rest,
And when the Requiem prayers are said, steal away into the dark night
inaudibly and with reverential awe.
I wish for the eternal silence to rule
and for the glorious dead to hear the noise of Battles,
And rejoice in our cries of victory, as we cast ourselves beneath
the wings of Glory upon the fields vermillion with blood.
For, there far away, battles sway
With the same blood that emanates from this resting-place:
Here above the eye of the resting lords,
There before the son’s history is made.
That’s why I seek peace, to officiate a Requiem
without words, without tears and quiet sighs,
Mingle with the odor of powder, the perfume of incense
As we hear resound the far noise of the cannon.
Hail to you, imperial galleys! In the name of a conscientious fast
Glide lightly upon these sacred waters.
A Requiem I’m officiating, one that heavens
have yet to see upon these sacred waters!